Honesty was raw when he spit on her and called her a useless, third rate slut.

Honesty in his bitter regret, in the verbal venom he spewed to decimate even the tiny shreds of the sense of self that she had clung to.

Honesty bled when he cracked her skull against the brick wall; honesty in the rough fingers seizing her neck, suffocating her with open intent.

Tearful honesty as he kicked her pregnant belly, disowning what he was convinced was a bastard child.

She has been honest too.

Honest in seeking out another man’s body to forget the violence of his weight, his burden on her. Grateful for the white blankness, the emotional insipidity of the encounter. Its utter lack of brutality.

Such a pity, she thought, that savagery and contempt had provided the most illuminating moments in their relationship.

A congenial arm draped over his shoulder. His father blew out a perfect ring of smoke as they stood on the lawn contemplating the elegant young woman who was soon to be his wife.

The perfect dark column of her neck elongated as she flung her head back to laugh, revealing the uneven pearls of her smile.

“That’s a beautiful girl, son. Beautiful, smart and accomplished. I can see why it had to be her.”

He found himself nodding in agreement as his mind wandered to a dark winter morning spent entwined in lazy, warm sheets. The smooth, dark plane of her back neatly parted by an exquisite spine. Vertebrae that made a virtuouso of his fingers. The delight in composing melodies on skin and bone, peaks and valleys. The frown that creased her brow as she half-turned towards him, her sleep interrupted. Her half growling chuckle as he pinned her down, intoxicated by her musk, her softness, the ripe otherness in her.

Because right now, my own life is off blogging limits. Soon, hopefully not. So here’s a little something from an ole diary of yore. Inspired by one of my favourite albums, A Few Small Repairs by Shawn Colvin – particularly a song called If I Were Brave. (Incidentally, the ONLY song probably NOT to make it to YouTube. They were probably busy being overwhelmed by Rick Astley.)

Broken

Do it, says the shimmering man.

Your shining, evanescent body flies into the air, wings stretched and cuts through the water.

The angles and planes of you penetrate with scalpel precision.

Such perfect violation and I crush the wet sand in my palm, wanting abrasion, wanting pain.

Wanting You.

Lets assume for a minute that I was brave. That I came into this world with the Aura of the Blessed and Shimmering. Humour me a minute. Imagine fiery eyes, ambitions and a mind and body that were fearless. Imagine that.

If I were brave I would dive. My body shining in the moonlight, I would fly; I would glide; I would close my eyes briefly struck by the ecstasy of weightlessness. I would be one with the water. Feel it pounding against my eardrums, rushing into my nostrils, weighing on my lungs. Water, blood and Holy Spirit.

You come bursting through the water, dying to breathe, skin glistening and eyes dazed with daring. A magnificent snapshot for a mind constantly hungering for images of you. Puzzlement is writ large on your face – the puzzlement that is a prelude to the inevitable disappointment. I know the drill. There is my close personal history with disappointment but what’s more distasteful than a living martyr?

I want to be enough. Everything you ever wanted. For once I want to cut the mustard.

Lets go that party. The one where you can regale your friends with the never-boring Anecdote of Us. Love for you is about intangibles you will say. It was the not being able to put your finger on it breathlessness of being with someone. The miracle the miracle. I laugh gaily, shyly. I’m just learning to bask. You gesticulate. You illustrate. You effortlessly captivate your audience. I, your love object, want nothing more than to gladly and repeatedly electrocute myself on your high-voltage Aura of the Blessed and Shimmering till I bleed.

Till I feel blessed and enough.

A great party. Maybe for once I won’t be drinking too much and throwing up in the bushes wishing someone was holding back my hair. Or sitting in an overstuffed chair, thrusting my hands between my already clenched and pale knees talking about Plans. At this party I can pretend I never wanted to die.

Do it, you intone gently. Not wanting to tilt the balance.

Your torso gleams in the eerie night light as if bedecked in shining, salty pearls. A familiar ache swells in me and I feel plump with greed, wanting to taste the salt of you, the damp. I unclench the crushed sand in my palm and focus obsessively on my dirty, bitten nails. Your eyes don’t leave me for a nanosecond as I rise slowly with an exaggerated attempt at elegance.

I want to be that girl.

I want to be that bright arc cutting through the glassy surface into unknown depths. Braving all panic to swim into your arms. Your eyes are warm brown and sparkling in the chilly deep and limbs and lips mingle effortlessly, playfully. Light-bodied and light-headed we giggle bubbles and forget to breathe. Touch is velvet, fluid, more. Suddenly suddenly we are catapulted violently to a fixed bright spot in the watery firmament.

And Breathe.

I want to Do It. If I knew how, I would.

Its my fabric, blame it on the fabric. An old friend once talked about the fabric we were made of – strong, stern stuff and all that.

This fabric is flawed; it’s defective. A cosmic weaving error. The universe distractedly patched together some will and spirit but lets face it they did a shoddy job and dropped too many stitches.

Look at me.

I’m not durable polyester. Not Easy Wear or Easy Care.

I am the gauze that gives. Prod holes, leave gaps, cut, tear, rip to shreds. The fabric doesn’t know how to resist. The Easily Crushable variety.

I want to Do It. But I can’t escape the price I pay for a lifetime of Not.

But maybe – just maybe – in the deep, deep in you, I will be absolved, redeemed, baptised and reborn yours.